


Till the Walls Did Crumble and Fall

by ghostnebula (ryuutora)



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Angst, Cheating, Date Rape Drug/Roofies, Drinking, Hurt/Comfort, It's not explicit though, Keith (Voltron) Whump, Keith (Voltron) is Bad at Feelings, M/M, Rape/Non-con Elements, but not actually, he's also oblivious, yeah shit goes south
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-30
Updated: 2019-10-20
Packaged: 2020-07-25 23:10:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 11
Words: 16,644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20033890
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ryuutora/pseuds/ghostnebula
Summary: Keith makes a series of bad decisions at a party that ultimately ruin his relationship when he confesses to cheating on Lance. Too bad he doesn't realize there's another, much worse, word for what happened.How long will it take Lance to realize the love of his life is deteriorating rapidly before his eyes and he's been too blinded by his own grief to notice?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'll update this occasionally. 
> 
> This fic is not explicit, but it DOES mention some details of what happens to Keith as he tries to sort everything out after the fact. This also involves Keith being drugged. Steer clear if you don't think you can handle that.
> 
> *mentions of vomiting, alcohol, and the implied use of drugs in this chapter.

* * *

Lance is the best thing that's ever happened to him. Period.

Shiro is good, and always has been, and Keith would probably be dead or worse without him. And he's grateful.

But Lance is incomparable. No one else in his life could ever make everything better with just a few short words, a touch, a kiss. No one else has ever told him he's beautiful, he's perfect, he’s important. No one else has ever held him while he cried or promised him  _ forever. _

No one else has ever loved him this way.

For a long time, Keith felt that he didn’t deserve it. It was, of course, Lance who convinced him otherwise; for as much as Keith felt he didn’t deserve Lance, Lance felt that  _ he _ didn’t deserve  _ Keith, _ and that’s a testament to their true value more than any amount of “you’re good enough”s could ever be. 

Keith realizes, now, that they had been right, in the beginning.

He doesn’t  _ deserve _ someone as good and kind and bright as Lance, and Lance couldn’t commit enough atrocities in his lifetime to deserve the  _ shit _ Keith puts him through. 

It takes waking up in bed with a stranger to realize that Lance is simply  _ too  _ good to have to deal with him.

*

Lance presses another drink into his hand, laughing boisterously, cheeks glowing. “Let loose!” he demands, and his arm around Keith’s waist feels grounding in the chaos of the party. He turns his head to press a soft kiss to Lance’s cheek -- delights in the way it makes his eyes light up with joy. 

“I’m already drunk,” he admits over the cacophony. It’s true: he’s struggling to remain upright and he can’t stop giggling when Lance returns the favour and kisses his cheek, then his forehead, his nose, his lips. 

“Get more drunk. I wanna dance with you,” Lance whines, dragging out the last syllable. 

Keith rolls his eyes and sips the alien booze Lance gave him.

One of the natives of this planet chooses this moment to approach. “Paladins!” he greets, voice deep and resonating. All these aliens are bigger than all of them, muscled and hairy, with sharp,  _ sharp _ teeth and pointed ears, but otherwise eerily human. Keith doesn’t mean to think of werewolves, but he can’t help it. The alien reaches out to shake Lance’s hand. “I am Kyrix. It is so nice to meet you!” When he moves to grasp Keith’s hand, he instead comes into contact with the large metal cup he’s holding, nearly spilling it down Keith’s front. But Kyrix’s reflexes are good enough that he catches it right away, enormous hand covering the entire top half as he steadies the drink in Keith’s grasp. “Apologies!”

“I … I got it, thanks,” he says, and Kyrix nods and uncovers the cup. 

“My apologies once again. I only wished to introduce myself. I am Kyrix, of Deh-seayid. Captain of the High Guard. We will be seeing a lot of each other now that the alliance is set.”

Lance claps him on the shoulder. “Cool beans! We look forward to it. Also, we’re sorry, but we are very super drunk right now, and wanna dance.”

Keith snorts. “Not yet.”

“Babe.” Lance pouts. “Why not?”

“It’ll take one more drink before I can go embarrass myself. You dance fine. I don’t.”

“Honey-bunches, don’t say that! You dance gracefully. Like, like a … like--”

Before Lance can hurt himself trying to come up with a comparison that won’t result in Keith snapping his spine over his knee (he wouldn’t, but he would look really sad about it and that’s essentially the same thing), Keith waves a hand. “Go dance anyway. I’ll catch up once I’m done this.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah, I don’t want to rain on your parade. I’ll come dance with you once I can’t remember my own name anymore.”

Lance laughs, loudly, and kisses his nose again. “I love you. You’re adorable.”

Keith flushes red to his ears because Kyrix is still watching, but whispers, “Yeah, yeah, I love you, too.”

Lance gives a half-salute to Kyrix as he backs away. “Keep an eye on him for me! I want him to be able to actually find the dance floor when he’s ready.”

Kyrix returns the gesture with some confusion, but nods. “Sure!”

Keith takes another swig of the drink. It fizzes strangely on his tongue. “I suck at dancing,” he explains.

Kyrix nods. “I gathered as much.”

“I just don’t care as much if I’m hammered ‘cause then I forget people are judging me. Also, because Lance dances  _ dirty _ and PDA is weird when I’m sober.” He thinks he shouldn’t have said that, but he can’t quite figure out why. He drinks more, almost desperate to get to where Lance is. “Sorry.”

“What for?”

“Bad at socializing.”

Kyrix tilts his head, one ear twitching. “You are too hard on yourself. I haven’t heard a single positive thing about you since we began speaking, and yet here you stand before me, absolutely radiant, to the point I dare say you might not have  _ any _ flaws, if not for you degrading yourself.”

Keith nearly spits out his booze. “Wha?” he mumbles. The cup wavers dangerously in his grip, and he can’t tell if it’s shock or his body giving out on him. 

“Ah, allow me to help.” Kyrix takes the empty cup from him -- when the hell did he finish it? -- and steadies him with a hand around his elbow. Keith hadn’t realized he was swaying on the spot. “Come, you are unwell.”

“Wh--? I gotta … wait, Lance…” Keith tries, as he’s led away from the dance floor and towards an exit. The corridor is soothingly quiet when they stumble into it. Rather, Keith stumbles, and Kyrix tightens the grip on his elbow, his other hand curling around Keith’s waist, lacking the comforting pressure Lance usually provides. Instead, it makes him feel trapped.

He’s dizzy. A little nauseated. He might have had too much to drink.

He might have drank something he wasn’t supposed to, if the bitter taste lingering on his tongue means anything. 

“What’re you…” he murmurs, trying to stop them from moving but his feet are barely touching the ground and he feels too out of touch with his body to do anything about it. “What’re you doing?”

Kyrix doesn’t answer him. Somehow that makes this feel so much worse. There’s a fog in his brain and a roaring in his ears and nothing he can do about it. 

He’s escorted across a dark courtyard and there’s nothing he can do about it. He’s dragged into the guards’ quarters, struggling to control his own limbs, can’t push Kyrix away -- can barely even move. 

When he wakes up in the morning, he only gives himself enough time to pull his clothes on before he  _ runs. _

  
  
  


He thinks he’s hungry, but he can’t bring himself to eat. He can’t really bring himself to do much of anything.

He thinks he might be panicking.

One look in the mirror told him there’s a swelling purple welt high on his cheekbone that he can’t remember receiving. His hair is a mess. Something is dried and sticky in it and he’s been just sitting outside the shower for what must have been several hours now, debating the pros and cons of just  _ taking his clothes off. _ If the various aches and pains that grate through his nerves every time he moves are any indication, he isn’t going to like what he sees. 

It doesn’t help that he’s incredibly hung over. His mouth is sore and dry, his head is killing him, and he wants to throw up.

The latter might be the panic.

Briefly, he wonders if anyone has been looking for him. He doesn’t know what time it is. It was still somewhat dark when he fled Kyrix’s quarters, the first sun barely peeking over the horizon as he limped up the ramp into the Atlas.

He wonders if  _ Lance _ has been looking for him. 

He has to twist around to vomit into the toilet. 

The action hooks little bursts of agony into his ribs, his hips, his lower back. Makes tears well up in his eyes. This is  _ hell. _

How is he supposed to face Lance after what happened?

How is Lance going to _ react? _ Keith almost vomits again.

He cheated on Lance. There's no escaping the repercussions here. He fucked up. 

Lance is going to break up with him.

That's the straw that breaks the camel's back, really. More than the twinges of pain in unnameable places and the lingering fear of his helplessness last night; the knowledge that Lance is going to leave him, is going to  _ hate him _ , makes the tears overflow. 

“Fuck,” he whimpers, curling in on himself and hiding his face in his knees. 

He's such an idiot. He never should have done that. He never should have let that happen. 

By the time he unfurls himself to crawl into the shower, his joints are aching and stiff. 

* * *


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Keith's having some trouble coping and a lot of trouble keeping Lance in the dark.

* * *

Avoidance is the best tactic. When Lance approaches him to ask about his absence on the dance floor the previous night, Keith freezes up. He's afraid to provide the explanation in full, instead mumbling out a quick excuse of, “Sorry, got too drunk.”

Lance doesn't just let it slide. The disappearance, sure. The raised welt on his cheek? Not so much. 

Keith feels filthy where Lance's careful fingers cradle his chin, twisting his head towards the light. “Keith, what happened?” he asks, softly, and it's too much.

It's _ too much.  _

He wants to throw up again. He would, likely, if there was anything left in his stomach. It's the guilt. Maybe the pain that's still winding through his body, from the bruises and the scratches and the bite marks -- god, the  _ bite marks _ , enormous and deep, covering Keith from his thighs to his throat, and the worst part is he barely even _ remembers. _

He only remembers the way the water stung when he tried to shower the blood away.

He shoves Lance's hands away and retreats to the solitude of his room because he just can't handle it right now. 

Avoidance  _ has _ to be the best tactic, because he's too much of a coward for honesty. 

It isn't easy when his boyfriend worries after him, asking why he didn't come to meals and showing up at his door when he tries to hide away, offering comforts Keith doesn't deserve and begging for his attention, for his forgiveness, for whatever he needs to _ just talk to me, please. _

_ I'm sorry. _

Lance shouldn't be sorry.  _ Keith _ is the one who needs to apologize. 

But he can't do even that much. He's such a fuck-up.

He ignores Lance all the way to their meeting, even though he’s clearly going out of his way to walk beside Keith. It’s a tough reality to face, knowing that you had sex with someone else and your partner is none the wiser. That they still love you enough to hover and dote because they haven’t seen the truth yet. 

He’s still sore, but he masks the limp well enough that no one notices. It’s fortunate that the collar of his paladin suit reaches high enough to hide the edges of a scabbed-over wound left by Kyrix’s massive, too-sharp teeth. He doesn’t need more questions.

He just wants to get this stupid meeting over with and go back to the Atlas so he can be alone again. 

Of course, nothing in life can be simple. 

Kyrix catches his eye just moments after Team Voltron takes their seats around the table. Tension crackles through Keith’s spine and he can’t tear his gaze away, stuck watching that hungry, lupine smirk morph into something smug and  _ cold. _

And then, like the whole universe is working against Keith, he sits right beside him. 

Keith struggles to control his breathing as their alliance meeting opens, a feat made more difficult by the fact that he is the current leader of Voltron, and the L’Gahrouh keep directing questions his way. He has to focus on answering them and on being calm and diplomatic instead of, well, not hyperventilating. 

Someone is finally,  _ finally _ speaking to Allura instead of him when Kyrix’s claws drag lightly over his knee, up his thigh… Keith goes rigid. How fucking  _ dare _ he -- does he have any idea what he  _ did? _ What he’s  _ destroyed _ for Keith? 

When his fingers curl around his leg, dwarfing his thigh with the sheer size of his hand, Keith stands abruptly and stalks from the room, undeterred by the protests from his team. 

He’s only had a couple days to process the situation, and he’s hardly been successful. This is too much, too soon.

He’s almost outside when Lance intercepts him, blocking his path and demanding an explanation. Keith can’t look him in the eye. His knees tremble.

He needs to tell the truth.

His fingers dig into the bite-mark near the base of his hairline, the one that isn’t visible under his hair and the high collar of the suit. The pain is grounding, even as it makes his eyes water. He’s reluctant to let it heal because it  _ hurts _ so much and he knows he deserves that after what he did. 

“Keith, please, I’m so sorry. I’m sorry for whatever it is I did.  _ Please _ just talk to me.” Lance looks  _ miserable. _ Sounds worse. It’s Keith’s fault. His breath is starting to catch in his chest again and he wonders how and when he became so easily rattled.

Lance’s hand smooths gently over his shoulder, down his arm, in a gesture that should be soothing. Between the overwhelming guilt and the vague memories he’s managed to recall from a few nights ago, being touched at all just activates his fight or flight response.

He shoves Lance so hard that his boyfriend actually stumbles backwards a few steps. His hand seeks out the barely-healed wound again and applies pressure, an attempt to keep himself in the present. A bead of warmth trickles down the back of his neck. He doesn’t care that he’s bleeding as much as he cares about what he’s going to do to Lance. 

“I cheated on you,” he croaks. It comes out so low that he can barely hear it himself.

Silence. “What?” Lance asks eventually, just as quiet.

“I cheated on you,” he repeats. His voice breaks at the end. He still can’t make eye contact with Lance, instead opting to stare at the wall behind his head. 

They remain that way for a long stretch of time, Lance gaping at Keith, who stares resolutely at the barren wall of the corridor and waits for the inevitable catastrophe. He doesn’t think Lance is the kind of person to react with violence to a situation like this, but he’s known too many bad people to be so naive as to think that he’ll get out of this unscathed.

It comes as a shock when Lance just turns on his heel and walks away.

Keith doesn’t like to cry, but he can’t stop himself. He finds his way back to the Atlas through a haze of tears, alliance meeting be damned.

Maybe it would have been easier if Lance  _ had _ hit him.

* * *


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Being Keith is suffering.  
Colleen Holt is a gift.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm doing this for me bc that's what fanfiction is all about babey. creating the angst you want to see in the world and definitely NOT projecting like a lil bitch.  
lol

* * *

He can’t stand the way Hunk looks at him when they cross paths on his way to the canteen. It says everything he doesn’t want to hear, with no words. Hunk knows.

They probably all know.

He probably deserves whatever is coming to him. And even though he hasn’t been able to eat anything significant for several days, and his hands shake and his knees are weak, he turns and shuffles back to his room because he knows he can’t face them now. 

The healing wounds make the skin across his back and shoulders pull when he tries to curl around himself. He wants warmth and comfort and he’s managed to betray the only person he trusts to provide that. 

“I’m sorry,” he tells the empty room, as though Lance will somehow hear him and understand.

The quiet doesn’t answer back. He muffles a sob behind his hand and tries to pick out the dried blood crusted into the hair on the back of his neck. It only serves as a reminder.

This is too hard to do alone.

It’s harder when the nightmares start.

Like Keith has been doing a mediocre job of forgetting how much he _ hates _ what happened up until this point, and now he’s just outright terrible at it. Like the launch of the Atlas and the subsequent distance it puts between him and a planet he never wants to see again makes it easier for his stupid shitty brain to conjure up images of an alien he’s afraid of, hovering above him, the feeling of claws raking over his shoulders, digging into his hips. Of a too-warm, too-strong hand closing over his throat.

Of the way his pleas and protests fall on deaf ears.

He can’t breathe when he wakes up. It’s enough to convince him that he’s still trapped under Kyrix with no chance of escape, but when he’s able to fling himself out from under the covers and onto the cold metal floor the present floods back. He’s fine.

He’s okay.

As okay as he’ll ever manage to be again, at least.

He doesn’t sleep again, instead opting to wander the Atlas until the night cycle ends and the lights along the corridors begin to grow brighter. 

Allura is the first person he encounters once the day begins. She doesn’t try to pretend she isn't bursting with things she wants to say, even if she doesn’t speak to him. Probably nothing good, either. He ducks into the first available room just to get away from the _stare_and ends up face-to-face with Colleen Holt, arms too full of small potted plants that she nearly drops as he appears in front of her. “Oh, Keith!” she exclaims, and on reflex he reaches out to steady one of the plants that looks ready to fall. 

“Mrs. Holt,” he greets, unsurprised to find his voice worn and scratchy. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

She regards him openly for a long moment, then sets a couple of the plants down on the floor by her feet. “You don’t look well.”

He has to bite his tongue to hold back a sarcastic response, instead folding his arms over his chest defensively. “Didn’t sleep well,” he says.

“Seems like it.”

“I’m gonna--” Keith starts, shuffling backwards a bit to make for the door. 

Colleen interrupts, “Come get some coffee, then. I just put a pot on and there should be more than enough for two.”

“Um,” is all Keith has the mental capacity to offer.

“Come on. Grab those, follow me.” She nods at the cluster of little green sprouts gathered at her feet and doesn’t wait around for a response.

Keith follows her between the rows of foliage in the greenhouse and into her lab, then through a side door that leads to her sleeping quarters and office. A pot of coffee is steaming on a cluttered little counter crammed in a corner. She clears a space for the plants on her desk and sets about organizing the kitchenette while the coffee pot fills up the rest of the way.

Keith tries not to seem too awkward about intruding in her space, but she acts like she doesn’t care much outside of the fact that she’s embarrassed by the slight mess. This is Pidge’s mom, after all -- and he’s seen the inside of Pidge’s fucking disaster of a room before. She had to get it from somewhere.

Right: Pidge.

Pidge is probably pissed at him now, too. 

Hopefully Lance kept the information about his screw-up between the members of the original Team Voltron, because if he’s about to become a victim of Colleen Holt’s wrath, he might as well have just died on Lah’Gahroux and gotten it over with.

But she just sets a steaming mug of coffee and a plastic container full of sugar on the desk and gestures for him to sit. He does, maybe too abruptly. He hopes she’s not mad.

She doesn’t look mad, at least, but he’s also keenly aware that moms are really damn good at not looking angry even when they’re pissed beyond all reason. 

“You having some kind of crisis over there or what?”

Keith starts. He realizes he’s been staring at the coffee mug in silence. Colleen raises an eyebrow at him over the rim of her own mug. 

He wants to say that, yes, he kind of is having a crisis, and that while Lance hasn’t outright said that he’s breaking up with Keith, it’s safe to assume that’s the case. “Sorry,” is what he ends up saying, shrugging as he reaches out to take the drink. It’s hot enough that it hurts his tongue a bit. That’s good. “Just tired.”

“I can tell.”

He knows it’s probably rude, but he hasn’t been feeling up to social interaction lately, so he glares down at the carpet while they sit in silence.

“Your alliance meeting go that poorly?” Colleen asks, sounding as sincere and motherly as if Keith was her own child. Maybe she thinks she needs to be a placeholder while Krolia is away on a mission. He can’t say he really minds. 

He shrugs again. “It was okay. We got what we wanted, we all agreed on the terms. They’ll be part of our regular coalition meetings from now on.”

Colleen says something else, but he doesn’t really register it over the sudden roaring in his ears. 

Because the L’Gahrouh will be part of their coalition from now on. And their representatives will be at the meetings.

And Kyrix is one of their representatives.

“I gotta go,” he says, stumbling from the chair and nearly spilling the coffee as he sets it back down. 

Colleen calls after him, but he tears out of the greenhouse and down the corridor faster than she can keep up with, and doesn’t stop until he’s reached the training deck. 

In spite of the way his whole body protests, and how unsteady he is on his feet, he starts up a training simulation and tries to work out his frustrations that way. 

All he gets out of it is more bruises to hide the ones Kyrix left.

* * *


	4. Chapter 4

* * *

Lance doesn’t speak to him, and maybe that’s for the best. He doesn’t think he can handle whatever Lance would say to him.

It doesn’t stop him from feeling tremendous guilt at how heartbroken and betrayed Lance looks. The red around his eyes. The way his lip wobbles before he turns away from Keith entirely. 

It’s probably a good idea to extract himself from this situation, he realizes, as the temperature in the room drops about a hundred degrees and Pidge shoots him a  _ look, _ like he just killed a puppy.

Shiro is standing right outside the dining hall, arms crossed, and it’s the first time he’s seen him in  _ days _ but he can read the disappointment as easily as ever. He sighs. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“That isn’t like you, Keith.”

Vulnerability is  _ hard.  _ Fear is hard, too. It surges up like a wave of anger, instead, and Keith draws himself up to his full height and growls, “I said, I don’t want to fucking _ talk about it!” _

He’s gone before Shiro can compose himself enough to react. 

And he feels bad about it, of course. He  _ immediately _ feels bad about it. Shiro doesn’t deserve to be yelled at like that. Even if Keith  _ was _ pissed. Even if he’s always a little bit afraid when Shiro’s around.

Shiro doesn’t deserve that, because he doesn’t even  _ remember _ what the clone body he’s occupying did to Keith.

He carries all that guilt with him to the training deck; tosses aside his luxite blade (because they were asked to leave their weapons behind on Lah’Gahroux, and look where that got him) and starts up a training simulation, never mind that it sends four giant robots his way, all bearing weapons he couldn’t hope to overcome on a good day.

The announcement summoning Team Voltron to the bridge is the only thing that saves him a trip to the med bay. Though, he should probably go anyway, he realizes, as he limps determinedly out of the room and tries to clean away the blood on his face to the best of his ability.

They all still stare. Keith doesn’t know if it’s the blood or his haggard appearance or just the fact that he’s existing in a space where he’s disliked. He scrubs self-consciously at his cheeks with his sleeve until he’s sure the skin is rubbed raw but is clean, if not a little bruised. The bot didn’t break his nose, he doesn’t think, but it did quite a number on him anyway. 

His focus drifts in and out during the briefing. It’s more of the usual, so he doesn’t think that matters. Galra loyalists this, planet under attack that, go be the defenders of  _ whatever. _

His legs give out partway to the Lion, but thankfully no one is around to see. He’s just  _ tired. _ He needs to eat something. Pushing himself harder to train isn’t helping much when he can’t be bothered to take care of his basic human needs. 

He’s never been good at that. Lance used to help. How did he ever get by without Lance?

Black rumbles her concern as he hobbles up the ramp and he smiles, for real, because she’s  _ just _ worried and her judgment isn’t clouded by anger over his actions. He doesn’t let her into his head the way he used to, because he doesn’t want her to see, but she’s not miffed enough about it to stop him from piloting her out of the hangar. He wonders if the Lions are capable of guilt -- and, if she knew that he tried to call her that night but couldn’t quite grasp their connection, would she feel remorse? It wasn’t her fault. Whatever he drank screwed him up badly enough that not only did he render himself physically incapable, but mentally as well. 

He doesn’t want her to know about what a fuck-up he is, and he especially doesn’t want her to be guilty about something she had no control over -- after all, if he really wanted to get out of that situation, he knows he would’ve tried harder. Right?

He sighs and slumps down over the control panel. He’s faintly aware of the Atlas transforming in his peripheral vision. At least Shiro has the brains to start relaying orders to the team when Keith remains silent for most of their flight, instead of demanding he take charge of the situation. Lately, it’s the small things he finds himself grateful for.

It’s almost robotically that he throws himself into the fray when they arrive at their destination, targeting every Galra ship he can see with as much intensity as he can summon right now. Which is to say, not nearly as much as usual, and with a noticeable lack of focus, but in his defense he isn’t in great shape right now. Mentally  _ or _ physically. 

Black takes a couple of hits to the flank and he ignores Shiro berating his inattentiveness. 

He isn’t wholly cognizant of the particular care he gives to Red, maybe because it’s something he grew so accustomed to during his time with Lance -- they always make sure to have each other’s backs, and with Keith’s brain on autopilot he doesn’t notice anything off about the way he’s subconsciously following the Red Lion around to provide extra defense. 

So he’s very confused for a few seconds when Lance snaps over the comms for him to back off, and that he can handle his own damn self. 

Black hovers frozen in the stratosphere of this strange planet for a second too long. A shock of white light bursts across her eyes as a blast knocks her down closer to the surface. It’s so potent that  _ Keith _ feels it, and he swears loudly as he rounds on the offending ship.

Well, looks like the command ship that brought this fucking fleet along has finally decided to make an appearance. He’s getting real sick of loyalists and their seemingly unlimited supply of ships and weapons. Whatever it just shot at him with is charging up again, still aimed at Black. 

He doesn’t know if she can  _ take _ another hit like that. 

He lunges forward and sinks her claws into the hull, her jaw snapping shut around the cannon as the energy it was gathering fizzles out and disperses. It still sends a slight shockwave through the Lion, but she doesn’t seem distressed as she rips the weapon from its perch and tosses it out into space. The Atlas comes barrelling down on the other side of the ship and tears into it. 

In the end, they have several Galra prisoners, access to some tech Pidge is having a field day with, and now various other Holts have descended on Black to assess the damage, which ruins Keith’s plans for hiding away in the cockpit for a nice reprieve from, well, literally everyone else on the Atlas. 

So he hops right into another training simulation and gets his ass handed to him, since apparently that’s what he’s good at, now. Then he starts another, and another, and when Coran walks in he shies away from the disappointment he knows he’ll find when the simulation dissolves around him. 

“Sorry, I just…” he tries, but he doesn’t know where his explanation is going. He knows Coran won’t like the way he’s using the simulator, even if it isn’t quite the same as the one from the castle. “I shouldn’t have--” He sighs, flinching at the rumble of pain that grates through his ribs. “You can yell at me, you know. I deserve it.”

“Nonsense,” Coran says, almost kindly, and he risks a glance at his face. He’s never been great at reading people, but Coran doesn’t  _ seem _ angry with him, so he doesn’t turn and flee the room like he was gearing up to do. “You are entitled to use the training deck however you feel, although I would strongly recommend keeping another person around for safety reasons. I’d also like to recommend a trip to the med bay, if I may.”

Keith swallows around the dryness in his throat, glaring down at the floor between them. “You know that’s not what I mean.”

“Then what do you mean?”

Somehow, having a conversation like this with Coran is worse than having it with someone else, because no one else on this ship has the kind of father/son bond (or maybe weird uncle/beloved nephew bond) that Coran has with Lance. And Keith trusts Coran a great deal, and sees him as a sort of father figure as well, but he fears Coran’s protectiveness might not extend that far with matters involving Lance’s well-being. “I mean,” he takes a shuffling step backwards and bites his lip when his ankle throbs, “about Lance. You can yell at me, because I know I upset him and what I did was  _ wrong _ and I know he’s important to you, so--”

“But you’re important to me, as well.”

Keith’s brain tries to process that for a few drawn-out seconds, then gives up. “I shouldn’t have--”

“Now, I don’t know much about human courting rituals, so I don’t think it’s quite my place to make judgments on the matter, eh? But what I  _ do _ think is that you need to take a break from this, and come down to the med bay to get patched up, then maybe grab something to eat from the canteen. What do you say?” Coran doesn’t wait for a response, just gestures for Keith to follow him as he leaves, and Keith isn’t sure why he obeys.

Maybe because this is something Lance would have done, and he misses the comfort of small kindnesses like that more than he’s willing to admit.

* * *


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things will get better soon, I promise.

* * *

Everything just feels wrong without Lance.

He knows that’s weird, and maybe unhealthy. 

He thinks it wouldn’t be so bad if things had ended on better terms. But now he’s left with the constant ache of knowing Lance is angry with him. That Lance probably hates him. That everyone else probably hates him.

It makes everything feel wrong, and after years spent letting himself become accustomed to Lance’s presence, it feels worse not to have that last little bit of stability from him.

So he just lets himself drift. Through the days, and the few tasks he can bother himself to do. He drifts through the haze of his life and forgets how to lead Voltron while Shiro and Coran cast increasingly anxious lifelines to him from the periphery. 

Shiro knows something in their dynamic has shifted. Long before Kyrix, Keith had withdrawn himself from their relationship far enough that he knows he doesn’t need to worry about Shiro putting his hands on him. It already would have been a problem, but for some reason he really doesn’t think he can handle being touched _ now. _ Not by Shiro, but also not by _ anyone _, save maybe Lance, who he’s quite aware wants nothing to do with him.

They’re planetside on some allegedly beautiful, lush planet, taking a day to rest before their meeting tomorrow. Keith is _ not _ resting. He’s especially not enjoying the alleged beauty of the planet. 

He’s busy _ freaking the fuck out. _ Why he is freaking the fuck out is simultaneously obvious and _ very _ difficult for him figure out. They have a meeting tomorrow. Representatives from most of their allied planets and civilizations will be there. Hunk and Lance’s friend Uzqqulaxxxly will be there, which is always great fun. 

Kyrix will be there.

He doesn’t _ like _ Kyrix, and he definitely doesn’t want to be around him, but he doesn’t think he should be on the verge of tears about it.

Yet here he is, holed up in his room while everyone else is out enjoying themselves, trying not to imagine the feeling of Kyrix’s hands on his throat and his teeth in his skin. 

It isn’t working.

The door to his room opens and he leaps to his feet, luxite blade already drawn as he rounds on the intruder.

“Now, now, no need for that. No point trying to take this beast in a fight!” Coran says, chipper as ever. “I’m_ much _ too agile!” To prove this point, he drops to a crouch and jabs erratically at the air around him.

Keith relaxes his stance and sheathes the dagger. “What do you want, Coran?” he asks gruffly. He doesn’t mean to come off as rude, but he’s too busy struggling to maintain his composure to concern himself with things like etiquette right now.

“Well, I _ want _ you to come outside and enjoy this gorgeous day. Get a breath of fresh air! Dip your toes in the water! Live a little!” He reaches into his pocket and withdraws a small paper pouch. “Also, Colleen Holt asked me to give you these. She said you haven’t been looking well lately, and wanted to know what’s wrong. And, she wants you to know if there’s anything she can do to help, she’s here.”

Keith eyes him warily. “What did you tell her?”

“Your affairs aren’t mine to discuss, my boy. I only told her you are having a personal problem and we are handling it. Which, by the way, we are assuredly _ not _ doing. You are one very uncooperative paladin.”

Sighing, Keith accepts the package and peers inside.

“Oatmeal raisin cookies. I believe Shiro told her they’re you’re favourite.”

He swallows down the confusing mix of gratitude and despair that causes, nodding slowly. “Yeah, they are. Surprised he remembers that.”

It doesn’t take much convincing after that for Coran to drag Keith from his room, because he does have a slight weakness for cookies and because he’s just about concluded that hiding in his room with no distractions wasn’t helping his cause. 

And he feels a little bit guilty for making Coran think of him as uncooperative. 

There’s a flurry of activity outside the Atlas: crew members lounging around chatting with each other, the MFE pilots engaged in a vicious water fight involving buckets and drones, the native wildlife hovering curiously nearby. Someone has rigged up a grill and Hunk is manning it, a stack of various types of cooked meats and vegetables (Earth and alien alike) teetering on the table beside him. 

A peal of raucous laughter splits the air and he tenses, turning just in time to watch Lance sail through the air and land with an enormous _ splash _ in the lake. Allura flexes like a bodybuilder and Pidge dissolves in a fit of giggles as she bows. Lance’s head bobs up above the water, flashing a thumbs-up and shouting, “Let’s do it again, but from somewhere higher!”

“Up the tree!” Pidge says instantly, bouncing on her toes.

“Absolutely not.” Shiro crosses his arms and tries to look stern, but even from this distance Keith can see the amusement in his eyes. “We don’t need Lance dying in a freak swimming accident.”

Just as Lance is hauling himself up onto the shore, Allura shrugs, lifts Pidge up over her head, and -- before Pidge can even react to being picked up -- _ launches _ her across the water. The whole way Pidge screams with terrified delight and Keith catches himself maybe _ smiling _ as he watches her hit the water with what was probably a very painful, definitely very loud, _ splash. _

Lance’s own laughter cuts off abruptly, and Keith risks a look only to see Lance staring blankly at him. He doesn’t know how to react for a few seconds. By the time he has the sense to turn away, Lance has already looked back out across the water, shoulders sitting notably lower and his chest heaving in an obvious sigh. 

Keith feels guilty again. He wants Lance to have fun without him being there to ruin it. He wishes Lance could have fun _ despite _ him being there, but he knows he can’t undo what happened and he’ll have to live with the fact that Lance is going to associate bad memories with him for a while. Maybe even forever. 

“Well?” Coran prompts, dragging Keith’s attention from the distant brown speck of Pidge’s head making it’s way back to shore. 

“What?”

“Feel better?”

_ Not if my presence is going to ruin Lance’s day, _ he wants to say, but instead he shrugs noncommittally. _ Perhaps _ he could stand to stick around and get something to nibble on from Hunk’s impromptu barbecue, but at the same time … it’s _ Hunk’s _ barbecue, and he’s pretty sure Hunk might hate him (if Hunk is even capable of such a thing), and he _ really _ doesn’t want to help himself to something he’s probably not even _ welcome _ to.

But hell, does it ever smell good, and his stomach hasn’t seen a proper meal in … days? Weeks? Sometimes he eats enough to feel full, but then he’s likely to throw it up after, so he’s been trying not to do that. But he’d probably take on a whole army by himself just for a _ taste-- _

“Why don’t you go get your swimsuit? Try swimming. _ Relax. _The water’s great!” Coran offers, clapping him jovially on the shoulder, and it’s like five million things happen in his head at once.

He _ can’t _ wear a swimsuit because he’s covered in-- he’s covered in _ marks _ and scratches and scars and the bite marks he’s preventing from healing properly and bruises that maybe were from Kyrix and maybe are just from overexerting himself and how long do bruises take to heal anyway? He can’t wear a swimsuit because he’s a _ wreck _ and he can’t swim because everyone who hates him is monopolizing the waterfront and if he goes down there _ Lance _ will see the _ evidence _ of what he did and that’s a lot. That’s almost too much.

He’s so busy freaking out about _ that _ that Coran’s hand on his shoulder both surprises _ and _ scares him, and he damn near jumps out of his boots, barely containing an ungodly shriek. It takes too long to process who is touching him and why, so some instinctive part of his brain concludes immediately that there’s a danger, that someone is hitting him, that someone’s _ hands are on him, _ and then that it _ must be Kyrix _ and the hands are going to … to push and hurt and _ choke _ and _ force _ and--

He can’t _ relax _ because something is _ wrong _ with him and he never used to be afraid of everything but the other day something fell off a shelf in the common room and startled him enough that he had to lock himself in a storage closet and do breathing exercises to calm himself down. He can’t relax because he’s afraid of his own damn shadow, so he’s stuck on high alert mode all the time. And because he can’t relax, he can hardly sleep.

And if he _ does _ sleep, he dreams about things he doesn’t want to relive.

None of it is good. It’s _ all _ so fucked up. He doesn’t know if he walks away from Coran or _ sprints, _ but he blinks and he’s wedged between the sink and the shower in his bathroom, trying to count his breaths or whatever the fuck until he can think straight again.

It’s _ not good._

* * *


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sick of looking at this chapter y'all. Just take it as is. I give up lol
> 
> CW for injury, (accidental) self-harm, blood, stitches, uhhh nightmares??
> 
> I mean if you can't handle this stuff you definitely aren't reading this fic in the first place so idk why I bother lmao

* * *

His dreams are vivid, to say the least. 

After he forces a smile and reassurances upon Coran and retreats into the safety of his own bed for the night, there’s no avoiding them.

He can't stay awake any longer. Sleep deprivation is taking its toll, and even if he could bear to keep his eyes open at this point, he has a meeting tomorrow that he _ must _be functional and alert for.

If not to interact normally with the representatives present, then to keep his guard up in case … in case--

His arms won't work right, so it takes a few tries before he gets good enough purchase to push Kyrix away, and then he's just too bulky and too strong and this isn't_ right. _ Keith can do better than this. Something is _ wrong _ \-- more than just _ drunk _ wrong; like he's full of lead and helium at the same time. Like his body is too heavy too move and too weightless to be capable of much of anything. 

Part of him wonders how opposed to this he can possibly be, if he can't even find it in himself to fight back like he _ knows _ he can. 

Kyrix is forcing his shirt over his head and no amount of struggle will let him keep it on. The room wavers in and out of focus. It disappears momentarily behind the fabric of the undershirt and he twists to bite the arm gripping it.

Claws scrape his jaw and just under his hairline as Kyrix's hand closes over his throat. He can't breathe, and in seconds black is creeping in at the edges of his vision. 

When he opens his eyes, it’s Shiro’s face above him, and all the sensations in his body have narrowed down to the single point of the hand closed around his throat, the agony of burning flesh as the prosthetic arm glows bright, illuminating the_ off _ colour of his dear friend’s eyes. “They said you were worthless,” Shiro says, though his lips don’t move from where they’re twisted into a sick mockery of a smile. His fingers squeeze tighter. The hum of energy flowing through his arm grows deafening.

Keith screams, but all that comes out of his mouth is a river of blood.

His Marmora blade is in his hand before his feet even hit the floor, and he’s trying to pinpoint the location of the enemy while his brain clears away the fog from his dream. 

His chest heaves. He reaches up to touch his throat and confirm that he is, in fact, not being choked. There’s still adrenaline coursing through him from the abrupt awakening and as he becomes more aware of his surroundings, his limbs begin to shake.

_ “Fuck,” _ he whimpers. Pressure builds around his eyes. He doesn’t want to cry.

He doesn’t want to have dreams like that -- the kind that he knows he’ll have trouble forgetting, and that will make it even harder to look Shiro (his _ best friend) _ in the eye. _ “Shit!” _ With a roar of frustration, he tightens his grip on the knife and drives it into the wall beside him.

It doesn’t do much damage. To the wall.

Instead, the luxite slides off the smooth metal and intersects with the downward motion of his arm, which leaves him stunned for a few seconds.

_ Plip, plip _

Blood drips steadily from the gash in his forearm onto the floor by his feet. 

“Oh,_ f--” _ He curls the fingers of his other hand over the wound as the knife clatters to the floor, applying as much pressure as he can. _ Oh, fuck, _ indeed. Did he seriously just do that? It takes his brain several long moments to process everything, and then even longer to figure out the protocol, here. 

He slips and stumbles in the puddle of accumulating at his feet, bracing himself against the wall to stay upright. He leaves half-formed red footprints behind on his way out of the room and down the corridor. There are first aid supplies in the med bay. He can take care of this himself. No one needs to know what a fucking idiot he is, on top of everything else. 

His eyes burn with exhaustion. Little shocks of pain wind their way up his arm as he hurries through the darkened corridors, grateful for the late hour. Blood is running in rivulets over his skin, seeping between his fingers, so he twists the hem of his shirt up over the wound to absorb some. 

It’s even darker in the med bay -- it takes a while for his eyes to adjust, but he can see the rough outline of the storage cabinets lining the walls and after that it’s just a matter of feeling around for some gauze. His heart continues to race as he hunkers down in the doorway, closer to the light, and winds several rolls of gauze around his arm in a frantic criss-crossing wad. 

Then he breathes. Watches little red speckles bloom open across the pristine white fabric and lets his lungs fill, slow, and pretends it’s all right. In a few hours, he has to walk into a coalition meeting with his head held high and an albatross around his neck. It feels like that burden is going to drag him through the floor and straight into the vast emptiness of the universe they’re flying through. It feels like it’s going to be made so much _ worse _ tomorrow when he has to-- when he has to see--

His left arm is heavy when he wakes. It feels sticky and damp, encased in bandages that are soaked through. When did he end up in his bed?

He doesn’t feel well, too tired despite having slept long enough for the day cycle to begin. The sheet and blanket are damp with blood, too, he realizes as he slides his good arm under his chest and attempts to push himself upright. His ears ring.

_ “Why _ are you being so loud at-- what the hell?” Is that Lance? His voice warbles and Keith’s ears ring louder, the commotion from the hallway breaking through. Just in time for someone to pound on his door. 

“Keith?” Pidge’s voice says, strained and uncertain. 

It occurs to him that this is the first time Pidge has spoken to him in weeks, somewhere between being overcome with dizziness as he sits up and grunting out a half-assed, “What?”

“Could you explain the, uh, blood all over the floor, by chance?”

The static in his brain clears long enough for him to discern the meaning of her words. “Could I--? _ Ugh.” _ His head is killing him. “The blood?” The-- oh, shit. His blood. On the floor: in a puddle, smeared where he slipped, footprints trailing towards the door. He can see them when he blinks a few times and forces his eyes to focus. Blood soaking the gauze on his arm and staining the front left side of his shirt. _ “No, _ that’s--” He stands up, moves towards the door, too fast. He doesn’t know how he was going to make excuses for something like this, but he doesn’t get a chance because he hits the floor and, like a switch being flipped, everything just fades away in an instant.

*

“We _ should _ be putting you in a cryopod,” Coran explains, focused on bandaging over the stitches he just finished, “but seeing as you have a meeting in less than two vargas…”

“I don’t need a cryopod,” Keith croaks. He’s barely awake and doesn’t need an argument.

Coran seems to think otherwise. “You do, actually, and the moment our meeting is over, that is precisely where you will go.”

“I don’t _ want-- _”

“And then we need to talk.” Coran does look up, now, and it freezes Keith down to his core when their gazes meet. “Because Shiro and I are worried, and this is the last straw.”

Keith groans, attempting to throw his arms over his face, but the motion tugs uncomfortably at the needle in his arm and he flinches. “It was an accident!”

“From our perspective, based on your recent behaviour? It wasn’t.”

“It was!”

“Keith,” Coran says, suddenly much more gentle, much softer. “Something needs to be done.”

He’s too tired for this. He’s experienced too much fucking blood loss for this. “About what?” he asks, sounding as exhausted as he feels.

The hovering chair Coran is sitting in drifts backwards as he pushes away from the bed, taking his medical supplies with him. There are a few seconds of quiet while he tidies everything up and begins putting it away. Keith just watches, breath bated, waiting for the other shoe to drop, until finally Coran sighs and his hands still. 

He sighs. Stares at the floor. “You’re … not well. I’m sure you know that’s obvious.”

“I’m fine,” Keith insists, well aware that he sounds too defensive. 

Coran goes quiet again, long enough to finish cleaning and fish a pouch of some sort of pinkish, foamy liquid from the cabinet. He gives it a few deliberate shakes. “It’s alright to not be,” he says, popping the cap off and pressing the pouch into Keith’s good hand. “This helps your body replenish fluids, so we don’t have to take any more blood from--” he pauses; clears his throat and averts his gaze, “any more blood than necessary. It will help get you back to normal faster, without the help of transfusions.”

Keith takes a sip. He’s pleasantly surprised to find that it tastes not like bitter medicine, as he was expecting, but rather like strawberries and vanilla. “I said it was an accident, Coran. Can I go now?”

“Not until this is empty.” Coran taps the bag of blood hanging by the bed. “Which should be right around the time we’re due to leave for Izhensi, anyway. I can bring your armour here.”

He just flashes Coran a thumbs-up as the Altean makes for the door and sets the pouch down to fish his communicator out of the pocket of his jacket, which was brought along to the med bay and is draped over the railing on the bed. He only has a few missed notices, because he blocked communications from several people as a precaution. What is there is from Shiro, Kolivan, and Mrs. Holt.

_ We need to talk, _ Shiro’s says, blunt and to the point.

Keith rolls his eyes. _ Funny. Coran said the same thing. You know that was an accident, right? _

Mrs. Holt sent him a series of pictures from the greenhouse. Various types of plants in various stages of growth. One of them is captioned: _ “Who the hell keeps sneaking blackberries? I will find u.>:(” _

He can’t help a little half-assed laugh at that. He knows for a fact that Lance and Pidge are guilty, because they’re always the ones nabbing fruits and berries for Hunk to make pies, or tarts, or whatever with. He used to help.

Used to.

The last message, from Kolivan, is a file. He opens it and is presented with a report from Krolia’s latest mission. Highlighted at the bottom is the update she sent this morning, notice of her impending return, the current whereabouts of the Blades on the mission, and their estimated time of return.

It’s like he breathes easy for the first time in a while, relief washing over him gently. His mother will be back on the Atlas tonight. It’s oddly comforting to know that. He’s never _ missed _ her before, not outright (at least not since meeting her for the first time), but this time seems different. It wasn’t the longest mission she’s ever taken, yet he can’t help but wish she was back already. Like just having his mom around will make things easier. 

Coran comes back several minutes later with Keith’s armour and Shiro in tow. Keith says a quick prayer for his sanity because Shiro is frowning at him with his arms crossed, and a look in his eyes that Keith knows means he has a lot to say and not all of it will be pleasant.

Fortunately, he just nudges a chair over to his bedside and leans back in it, smiling even as he takes in Keith’s unfortunate state. “I was just on the bridge talking with some of the Blades. Krolia is coming back tonight.”

“I heard.” Keith eyes him warily, surprised he’s not already being reprimanded for dangerous behaviour, or worse, coddled and doted on for being ‘fragile.’ 

“You’ll probably be in a cryopod when she gets here.”

“So don’t put me in one.”

Shiro chooses not to acknowledge that. Smart. “Thought you might want to have a chat before then.” 

Keith barely suppresses a sigh. “Is that what we’re calling it now?”

“Yes.”

“You don’t have to tell me. I know you’re just going to say, ‘you’re acting strange, Keith. I don’t like this thing between you and Lance, Keith. Why would you do something like that, Keith? I thought you really loved him.” He, very maturely, sticks out his tongue and makes a face. “I’m allowed to make mistakes, Shiro.”

That, at the very least, steals a flash of genuine amusement from Shiro. “It is, after all, part of the human experience,” he finishes for him. “Or, I suppose, the human-Galra experience.”

“So why are you even here? Doesn’t everyone have a coalition meeting to get ready for? Don’t you all need your hair curled and your suits pressed?”

“Good to know becoming a hermit hasn’t drained you of all that dry wit we love so much.”

“I’m serious,” Keith says around a half-smile, because talking to Shiro like this feels as normal as he’s going to get anytime soon. 

Shiro shrugs, leans closer -- but not too close, just enough that he can lower his voice. Take on a more solemn tone. “I want to know why.”

“Okay.” Keith genuinely, honest to go, doesn’t want to have this conversation right now. He’s got enough to worry about with Coran thinking he’s suicidal and the fact that in just over an hour he has to go sit through a meeting where Kyrix will be present. “Because I’m an idiot.”

“You’re not. Don’t be self-deprecating.”

“Then we shouldn’t be talking.”

“Keith,” Shiro starts, exasperated, a warning in his tone. 

“I don’t want to talk about this.” He tries to turn his body away, but when he moves too fast it makes him dizzy again and Shiro wavers out of focus. For a moment, his silhouette has off-coloured eyes, but when Keith squeezes his eyes shut and takes a deep breath, everything seems normal.

“Are you okay?” 

“I’m fine,” he growls, even as fear travels like a shockwave up his body. His breath catches. “I don’t want to talk about this. I’m tired.”

In his peripheral vision, he can see Shiro and Coran exchange a look, communicating silent questions to each other, before Shiro exhales heavily and stands. “Take a bit to rest. We’ll wake you up when we’re planetside.”

Keith, naturally, doesn’t bother trying to actually sleep.

* * *


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Keith has to see Kyrix again. It doesn't go well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is sort of short because the next one is, well, a LOT.  
CW for panic attacks

* * *

It's like ice water is filling him up, rising with every step he takes until it begins to freeze his ribs and his chest constricts with the pressure, his throat closes up, his mouth freezes shut and his brain function ceases altogether. He's somewhat aware of being greeted by a short, lithe teal alien with too many arms, and of trying not to react when it grabs his hand to shake it. 

He's somewhat more aware of Lance's eyes on him as Keith fails to navigate yet another social interaction. Fumbling through a response that doesn't quite reach his own ears, he's led through a set of doors into a spacious hall with a round table as the centerpiece. The inside is hollow, so he thinks maybe it looks more like a ring, and he wonders why that matters, then forgets for a second why he's here.

Forgets for another second why being here matters so much. And why it's so bad.

And why his teammates all brush past him to socialize and leave him in the dust.

Even Coran has been roped into a conversation across the room, and that last little flicker of hope fizzles out of existence. He doesn't have anything to fall back on if Kyrix finds him -- _ when _ Kyrix finds him. Maybe if he gets to his seat fast enough he can just hide out there until the meeting starts and, surely, the alien isn't stupid enough to bother him out in the open like that. He scans the name tags at each seat, verging on frantic, and then a silhouette in his peripheral vision tells him it's over. When he takes several steps back to maintain space between them, he finds himself backing out of the room altogether. Kyrix advances further, out into the corridor, matching Keith step for step until his back hits the wall. 

His knees tremble. Hell, his whole body is shaking like a leaf in a storm. "Fuck off," he demands, but it lacks the confidence he wanted behind it.

Kyrix bares sharp teeth in a mockery of a grin. "What's got you so riled up, little Galra?" 

The ice water keeps his mouth stuck shut, the words he wishes he could say to this bastard burning through his brain at a thousand miles per second even as he remains silent. About Lance and betrayal and relationships and how dare he -- how fucking dare he make that kind of decision for Keith, when he was barely coherent and couldn't properly articulate why he _ couldn't; _ why it was a bad idea; why he _ didn't want it. _

"I only came to play," Kyrix growls, leaning much too far into Keith's space, and his heart hammers in his ice-cold chest and his lungs struggle to draw air and he thinks the burning in his eyes might be tears -- thinks this is the most afraid he's ever been in his life, and the dagger strapped to his back seems to hum with life as a reminder of its presence. He wishes he could use it. His fingers twitch with the urge to just grab it, get it over with, but that isn't the kind of thing he can just _ do _ at a coalition meeting.

And not the kind of thing that would be easy to justify. 

Claw-tipped fingers touch his cheek and everything goes red. The Marmora blade is in his hands before he even registers the action, carving through fur and flesh and muscle and Kyrix jumps back, yanking his injured arm away as Keith turns and _ runs. _

The floor beneath his feet quakes. Literally. Kyrix stumbles and collides shoulder-first with the wall.

A second tremor, this time much stronger, is accompanied by the distant rumble of an explosion. He ducks his head through the doorway of the meeting hall long enough to shout, "Get to your Lions!" before rushing from the building, back across the arid, orange-tinged streets and to the Atlas.

He can’t get his heart to stop hammering in his chest, or his breathing to calm. He doesn’t know if this slows him down or not, because he’s having trouble focusing on what’s happening around him.

Vaguely, he can recall Coran, or maybe Shiro, demanding that he take it easy today. Yeah, right.

Black is airborne before he’s even aware of being in the pilot’s seat. His heart continues pounding. He tries not to think of Kyrix because he doesn’t want her to know but the sad rumble she gives makes him wonder if she does anyway. _ Claws on his cheek. _ He rubs at the spot that burns hot where they made contact, even though he knows it’s only his imagination.

He can’t breathe.

_“Keith! Are you listening? We need to form Voltron!”_ Allura is shouting, shrill and harsh in his ear, and he jerks back when her voice bursts through the comms. 

“We need to…” he repeats absently, taking in the scene before him. A Robeast.

It’s been a while.

They need to form Voltron. Oh, Allura said that. That’s why.

He can’t _ breathe. _

“Right, yeah. Form Voltron!” He pulls back on Black’s controls and she rockets through the sky, up through the stratosphere, the other Lions falling into formation behind her. There’s the flash of light, the _clank_ of machinery, the pressure around his throat and the feeling of teeth sinking into his shoulder--

The sob bubbles up unexpectedly and he slides forward, out of the seat, hands slipping off the controls. His fingers move to cover the wound on the back of his neck and he tries to make his breathing slow because he thinks he’s hyperventilating.

_ “What the hell?”_ someone shouts.

_ “Who did that?”_

_ “You need to try again!”_

Black shudders, a wave of grief crashing through their bond, then _ guilt, _ ice-cold and agonizing. She freezes midair and then plummets towards the surface of the planet.

He tucks himself into a corner, as far away from everyone else as he can get. They’re all in various states of disarray, all weary, all downtrodden over a battle hard-fought that can barely be considered won. They lost a lot of good soldiers out there. Keith thinks they did, at least. He wasn’t exactly mentally present for a lot of that.

It’s making him reconsider his decision to let Shiro have his reprieve from the strain of battle. 

“What matters is that everyone did their best,” Coran is saying. Keith turns his back to them and draws his shoulders up around his ears, leaning into the alcove he’s situated himself beside for a better sense of security. 

“We weren’t able to form Voltron,” Lance argues, voice raw. “That _ never _ happens anymore. If we’d just, we _ should _ have--”

“Things happen,” Shiro says softly. Keith can imagine he’s placed a placating hand on Lance’s shoulder the way he so often does. “We’ll solve the problem. We’ll work on it and do better next time.”

“I think we all know what the problem was,” he hears Pidge say, quiet and almost uncertain, and he bites his lip, turns his face more into the alcove even though they already can’t see it. He’s too wrung-out for this right now. His breath is still coming in shallow, too-quick gasps that he can barely control, his legs and arms shake, his heartbeat roars in his ears. He can’t face his team like this. He’s not even sure he can _ talk _ in this state, let alone defend himself.

And what is there to defend, anyway? It _ is _ his fault they almost failed. It’s his fault for breaking the bond, his fault for freaking out. It’s his fault he’s afraid of Kyrix in the first place -- and he is, and he can admit that, even though he thinks that’s _ ridiculous _ and _ stupid _ and _ weak. _

His nails, chewed and picked into bloody disasters, dig into the wound on his neck. It’s more of a scar now that it’s had several weeks to ... _attempt_ to heal. He wonders distantly if the sharp twisting feeling in his stomach is warning him that he needs to vomit. That wouldn’t be a first. 

Something grabs his upper arm and he tenses, whirls around and his fist makes contact with a cheek before he realizes. The touch was soft and hesitant, not bruising and demanding, and he’s with his team, which is somewhere, well, _ somewhat _ safe, and there’s no need to react like that. And Shiro is reeling back, clutching his face and looking surprised, as Keith’s brain catches up with his situation and he gasps. His breath stutters on the exhale.

“I...I’m sorry,” he tries to excuse, but Shiro gazes down at him sadly and with something not unlike consternation lighting his eyes. Calculating. Curious. 

_ Concerned, _Keith settles on, and he takes a shuffling step back, prepared to flee.

“Keith,” is all Shiro has to say, and he freezes where he stands. “We think it’s time you two talked to each other.”

* * *


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, they talk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A baby (not mine) stretched the christ out of one of my favourite shirts in a desperate bid to get to my boobs. That's a good run-down on how my week is going overall, in case you're wondering why I take 76 years to update things. Don't hold other people's babies if you want your clothes to survive. That's your fun anecdote for this chapter.
> 
> I'm tired.

* * *

“This is a stupid idea,” Lance grumbles. Keith isn’t oblivious to the closed-off body language. Hell, Lance has gone so far as to sit facing the  _ wall _ to avoid him. 

Keith knows he fucked up, but it still  _ hurts. _

“I know,” he offers, quietly, because he isn’t sure that it’s okay to speak to Lance at all. 

Neither of them says anything else for a long while. Keith curls himself into a smaller ball with each passing second. “If it means anything, I didn’t want to,” he tries after what must be an eternity of tense silence.

Lance's back straightens minutely. He turns, slowly, and looks at him like he’s grown an extra head. “What?”

“I…” Keith blinks away the tears gathering in his eyes. “I didn’t … I just don’t like the idea of you hating me, okay? I know that’s selfish. But if it makes you hate me any less, I just want you to know that if I could have not … done …  _ that, _ ” God, he’s struggling just to  _ think _ about it, “I would’ve tried harder to find a way to stop it. I  _ swear. _ And I’m sorry, not because everyone  _ wants _ me to apologize, but because I feel  _ awful _ about everything that happened and-- and  _ how _ it happened, and it’s so bad that I can barely  _ function, _ and if knowing that it wasn’t intentional makes you hate me just a little  _ less, _ then just  _ please _ understand that I didn’t want that to happen.” There, everything he wants Lance to hear, laid out in the open, so maybe they can move on from this. Maybe Keith can get the official break-up from Lance and feel some closure, and maybe Lance will find it in his heart to forgive his  _ stupidity _ and his  _ helplessness _ and they can start to recover from actively hating each other. 

Okay, well, maybe just Lance actively hating Keith while Keith wallows in self-pity. Whatever.

“What do you mean,” Lance says, eyes alight with anger -- it’s the first time in weeks he’s shown an emotion other than grief, “you  _ didn’t want to?” _

“With--” Keith’s breath catches in his throat. He doesn’t want to say his name. He doesn’t want to think about him. He hugs his knees tighter to his chest and shudders. “When he was … I didn’t  _ want _ him to. I told him to stop. I’m sorry, okay? I couldn’t stop him and I’m  _ sorry _ .”

Lance stands abruptly. Keith tries not to flinch when he advances. This is uncharted territory, and he doesn't have a single clue how to navigate it and come out unscathed. “When you say that you  _ cheated _ on me, you mean…” he trails off, dropping to his knees barely a metre from Keith. 

When it becomes obvious that he isn't going to continue, Keith sighs and elaborates for him. “I mean, I had sex with someone else. I know what cheating is, Lance. I'm not stupid.”

Well, maybe he's a little bit stupid, and makes some stupid choices, but he doesn't need Lance to know that. 

Lance nods. Stares off into space for a second that stretches on too long. “But you didn't  _ want  _ to have sex with someone else?”

“Of course not.” Keith doesn't mean to sound so defensive -- he just doesn't want Lance to think ill of him, even after all this.  _ “You’re...  _ well,  _ you _ were my boyfriend, not--” Nope, still can’t say it. “I was just … I was really drunk, or something. I couldn't move right, so when he was trying to-- well, y'know, there wasn't much I could do.”

Lance is quiet again, for enough time that Keith risks a glance at his face. He finds it pale and unblinking. “So, you're saying somebody took advantage of the fact that you were drunk to force you to have sex with them, and you went ahead and decided that was your fault, and that counted as you cheating on me?” His voice remains surprisingly devoid of emotion for someone who looks a half-second from passing out. 

“Well, it does, doesn't it?” Keith mutters. He hates that they even need to have this conversation; that their teammates forced Keith into this situation in the first place. “I let someone who wasn't  _ you _ do that to me. It doesn't matter whether or not I  _ wanted _ to, it matters that I--”

“Of course it  _ matters!” _ Lance all but screeches. His fingers curl into his own hair and  _ pull _ as he shakes his head. “Oh my god.  _ Jesus. _ I'm the worst boyfriend ever.”

_ “You _ are?! Are you joking?  _ I'm  _ the one who ruined our relationship. Don't try to pin the blame on yourself, here, because it isn't going to work.”

He doesn't expect Lance to start crying at that. He expected … well, he’s not sure. The typical protocol when someone is pissed at Keith is being yelled at, probably punched, maybe worse. Lance has every reason to be pissed, but instead of punishing Keith he's just … crying.

He reaches out to him, uncertain. His base instinct is to comfort Lance, but Lance is angry with him, and fear of the consequences makes him pause midway through the action. “Lance, I’m … I already said that I’m sorry. If I could have stopped it I would have. If I could go back and undo it I would. I…” No, he can’t say that he loves him still. That isn’t fair of him. He hurt Lance -- he can’t complicate things further for him by bringing his own feelings into the mix. 

Lance surges forward and envelops him in a hug without any forewarning. It’s been so long since he’s had this much physical contact with someone that the sensation thrums pleasantly through his whole body, even as he goes rigid with fear.

It takes him a second too long to relax. Lance relinquishes his grip and leans back, and Keith panics and grabs the fabric of his shirt to keep him in his space. He isn’t ready to let go.

One of Lance’s hands slides up to cup his cheek, and Keith knows what the blue,  _ blue _ eyes gazing down at him see. The chapped and bitten lips, the gauntness of his cheeks, the unwashed hair and the exhaustion in his eyes. He sees that every morning in the mirror and he couldn’t bring himself to care until this moment, when Lance has to see it, too.

He curls his fingers tighter into Lance’s shirt until the spots on his fingers he’s picked raw burn under the pressure. 

He feels strangely compelled to apologize for his appearance, especially as a frown pulls at Lance’s lips. “I’m sorry,” Lance whispers, a tear tracing down his cheek. “You didn’t deserve that. I never would have… I’m so sorry, I fucked up so bad.”

“You didn’t,” Keith tries to explain, again, but he sees how fruitless the endeavour is and sighs instead. “I just wanted you to understand what happened.”

Lance makes a noise that might be an attempt at a laugh, blinking rapidly as his gaze shifts to the ceiling and the hand on Keith’s cheek shakes. “I’m not sure  _ you _ understand what happened.”

“...What?”

“I don’t mean for that to be rude, but  _ Keith, _ I mean … you didn’t cheat on me. That’s not what that was  _ at all.  _ Cheating would be …  _ intentionally _ having sex with someone else. You have to  _ mean _ to do it, Keith. You’re supposed to--” he clears his throat and Keith can only watch helplessly as a fresh wave of tears spills over his cheeks. “I can’t do this.”

“Why?” he asks, quietly, afraid of snapping Lance out of whatever trance is keeping him close to Keith like this. Of hearing that he can’t find it in himself to comfort someone who betrayed him. 

Lance’s lip wobbles and Keith is all but conditioned to react to that, because he’s been Lance’s source of comfort as much as Lance has been his. It takes all his strength to remain still, eyes fixated on the  _ hurt _ clouding Lance’s expression. “You’re supposed to  _ want _ it.”

He fears, for a moment, that Lance must be accusing him of lying. He doesn’t know how to convince him that the truth is that he  _ didn’t, _ and never would, and how could Lance not believe that even for one second? 

“I-- no, I  _ didn’t,  _ Lance, I swear,” he spews out in a panic. Lance is the best thing that ever happened to him. Of  _ course _ he didn’t want what Kyrix did to him. 

“I know! I know you didn’t, baby,” Lance croons, fingers threading through his hair. The sudden return of the pet name sends Keith reeling. “I know you didn’t. You didn’t cheat on me. I should’ve  _ known _ that. I’m so sorry.” Lance’s lips ghost over his temple. 

Keith trembles in his hold. “I didn’t want--”

“You didn’t cheat on me,” Lance repeats firmly. “That wasn’t your fault. He … he raped you. It wasn’t your fault, I promise.”

Keith wants to protest. The word sends a shock of fear through him, and he shakes his head vehemently. He wants to tell him  _ no, _ that isn’t true, because he didn’t do anything to stop it, but--

But  _ didn’t he? _

Didn’t he  _ say _ no, didn’t he fight back? Didn’t he kick and scream and cry and bite and tell Kyrix  _ no, _ over and over? Didn’t he call out for Black in the void where their connection was supposed to be? Didn’t he make it perfectly clear that it was  _ never _ something he wanted?

And didn’t Kyrix ignore him, and hurt him, and pin him down while he--

While he--

“But, I’m…”  _ What, a man? _ He trails off as he slides a hand up, over his collarbone, to fend off the alien who is..._ was…_ he sucks in a tremulous breath and shakes his head. 

Those lips press to his forehead again, this time more confidently, and Lance is shaking, too. “I’m sorry,” he says, for the millionth time. “I should have known better. I love you.” Keith makes an awful noise at that, a tiny whine that tears out of his chest, and his eyes begin to water. “You’re okay. I promise. I love you.”

Keith lets everything he’s been fighting for  _ weeks _ overflow as he drops his head onto Lance’s shoulder and  _ cries, _ the way he’s never been able to cry in front of another person before. It’s helpless and heartbroken, and a little bit disgusting, but Lance cradles him close and shares in his tears, apologies spilling from his lips all the while.

* * *


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They talk more. You're welcome.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Work is literally killing me but here's more content!!  
There was going to be Krolia in this chapter but lbr if I had to write any more of this you'd be waiting another 2 weeks for an update.  
I'll respond to comments eventually (at this rate it's looking like that'll be the end of the school year, though more likely sometime around my retirement). Is anyone praying 4 me? You should be lmao

* * *

Somehow they end up in Lance’s room, Lance curled bodily around him while Keith breathes slow against his chest. He feels his lip wobble as fingers run through his hair.

“I--” Lance’s voice breaks and his forehead touches the crown of Keith’s head as he inhales deeply and tries to compose himself. “I shouldn’t have… Hunk and Pidge have been asking to-- to talk to you, and I asked them not to, because I didn’t want to upset you, or… or have you think they were prying,” he confesses in a rush. “I told them to let_ you _ decide when to talk to them, because I know you’re not, y’know, the most _ open _ person and especially about something as sensitive as... what was happening.

“But they said you were avoiding them like the plague, anyway. And then I had to ask Allura to maybe keep an eye on you and just, I dunno, try to figure out _ why, _ and if you were _ okay, _ but you were avoiding her, too. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have let that go on. I should have told them to pester the crap out of you, because I _ knew _ that just wasn’t something you’d _ do. _”

“I wasn’t--” But, _ no, _ he _ was _ avoiding them, even if only because he thought they hated him. And why shouldn’t he, when he’d been forced to watch from the sidelines as Lance fell apart and they all tried to make it better? They tried to fix what _ he _ did -- why _ wouldn’t _ he assume they hated him?

“They’re your friends, Keith. They didn’t like what happened, but they were trying _ so hard _ to figure out a way to just-- just _ approach _ you and try to maybe fix things and I understand why you kept running away but, _ god, _ I wish you hadn’t. I wish you’d just explained to me right from the start--” Lance’s breath catches on a sob and his lips brush over Keith’s temple as he inhales deeply to steady himself.

Keith turns his face further into Lance’s shoulder and breathes deep, too, but less as a means of calming himself and more to cherish the way Lance smells and the fact that he’s _ with _ him and _ holding _ him and it feels good; it feels _ so good _ after so long and being so afraid of touch for all that time. There’s none of that underlying fear, no prickling in his skin or tightness in his chest when Lance’s shaking fingers stroke his cheek, comb through his hair, and begin disentangling the mess it’s become recently. He bites his lip and waits for the inevitable lecture on self-care, and his terrible-beautiful hair (Lance can never make up his mind), and how he owns a brush for a reason.

That, more than anything, would make him feel normal again. That would make him feel like Lance really _ does _ still love him, because it’s how he _ shows _ love, not how he _ says _ it. So he closes his eyes and lets himself enjoy the feeling of Lance carefully tugging knots loose, wishing they could just go back to the _ before, _ when Lance would sit him on this very bed with a comb and hair moisturizer, and shower him with attention as he talked about Earth, his family, his friends back home, how much he looked up to his big sister -- things Keith could dream about if he focused hard enough. Things he’d wanted and craved and was just finally, _ finally _ beginning to earn. He pretends that’s how things are, until--

Until Lance’s fingers slow and freeze over a rough patch on the back of his neck and tension snaps Keith’s joints into place, wire-taut, heart frozen in his throat. “I--” he starts to excuse, forcing his rigid body into action; to move away from Lance and apologize. He’ll apologize until his tongue bleeds, he doesn’t care. Anything to make this all go away. “I’m s--”

Lance catches his wrist, loosely enough that he can easily pull away, but Keith doesn’t because… _ because… _ he doesn’t _ know _ why. Maybe because Lance is going to have to know eventually, isn’t he? He’s had to deal with a lot today, and if he’s pouring salt on a metaphorical wound he’d rather do it all at once and get it over with, than keep doing it little bits at a time. 

Keith is kneeling on the bed, leaning away from Lance, but he lets a hand curl over his shoulder and under where his hair cascades down the back of his neck. They don’t break eye contact. The moment Lance comes in contact with the scar there he shudders, barely preventing himself from reaching up to cover the wound, or-- or scratch at it, or push Lance’s hand away, or _ something. _

Lance moves closer into his space and Keith begs him with his eyes to just look away. But he brushes the hair aside and their chests are practically right against each other now, so no matter how much Lance tries to hide the little gasp, he can _ feel _ it.

His blue eyes are like ice when he backs away. He doesn’t speak for several long moments, or maybe he _ can’t. _ Either way, his silence does nothing to appease Keith’s pounding heart. 

“That’s… _ it, _ right? He didn’t--?” 

Something in his expression must give away his answer before he can summon the strength for a proper response. Lance looks like someone punched him in the gut.

Keith toys with the hem of his shirt but seriously debates the pros and cons of taking it off. He finds he doesn’t want to, but he knows this is something Lance needs to see to understand, so he compromises by lifting it enough for Lance to see _ some. _ Some of the bruises he’s been giving himself, and some of the mostly-healed lines running down his hip from Kyrix’s claws, maybe from fighting back (he can barely remember), and _ some _ of the scarring from a series of bite marks that stretch from his waist to his thigh. 

He loses himself for a long moment, until Lance reaches out to run his fingers tentatively over the scars and he _ can’t-- _ he grabs Lance’s forearm to keep him at a distance. When he looks up, he finds his gaze fixed on the place he’s almost touching, where Kyrix’s canines punctured deep. His mouth is pressed into a thin line, eyes carefully unreadable.

“Who?” he says, and Keith makes a confused noise. “Who did-- who did _ this? _” 

Keith swallows. Tries to work the name out of where it’s lodged in his throat. He can’t. “The, uh… remember the captain of the guard? We met at the party? The one who… he almost spilled my drink, and you went to dance, and--”

“And I left you alone with him,” Lance finishes, the horror evident in his voice. “I _ left _you--” He puts his free hand over his mouth like he’s going to be sick. 

“No, _ Lance, _ there’s no _ way _ you could’ve known,” Keith says, as soft and calm as he can manage at this point. “This isn’t your fault.”

“I’m going to kill him.”

_ “What?” _

“I’m going to kill him,” Lance says again, and he makes it sound like a promise he’s giving to Keith.

And maybe, though he knows that it's unbecoming of a paladin of Voltron, Keith wants it to be.

* * *


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Krolia arrives on the Atlas and things could not possibly be worse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mama is:  
a) pissed  
b) ready to throw hands

* * *

Krolia’s arrival, less than a varga after Keith is put in a cryopod, quickly devolves into a whirlwind of fury as she storms through the corridors and into the bridge. Several members of team Voltron are there, among other crew members, but she zeroes in on Lance, who’s engaged in a quiet and urgent conversation with Shiro. 

_ “What _ is wrong with him?”

Lance’s head snaps up and he shrinks back, staring up at her with wide, red-rimmed eyes. He can see the surprise that flashes across her face at his appearance, and the way she glances at Shiro as if to gauge the severity of the situation. 

He knows Shiro probably looks as bad as he does. “Who told you?”

“Who  _ told _ me? I can smell it. This whole ship  _ reeks _ of distress. And  _ blood. _ And the  _ only _ reason I cut my assigned task short to come back here is because I have had three  _ separate _ members of the Blade break protocol to contact me about something being  _ so wrong _ with my  _ son _ that it’s  _ literally _ all they can smell.”

“Galra can…  _ smell _ that?” Shiro asks, ignoring the looks they’re receiving from everyone else on the bridge as he places a supportive hand on Lance’s shoulder.

Krolia chooses not to answer. _ “What happened?” _ she demands.

Lance opens his mouth to answer, but what comes out instead is a sob. He doesn’t know how to talk about it. He doesn’t  _ want _ to talk about it.

It isn’t his story to tell, and to lay out all his failings and shortcomings as a boyfriend, a teammate, and even just as a  _ friend _ is difficult to bear.

Shiro only knows because Shiro  _ knew _ the second he saw Lance enter the bridge. Because he’s never seen Lance look so devastated before and the pieces were too easy to put together after that. 

“I think we should go somewhere else,” Shiro says gently, and Lance just nods as he’s escorted from the room.

He knows Allura and Pidge are here, too, and he knows they’re watching intently as the three of them leave, especially after Krolia’s outburst. He wonders what they know -- what they could possibly have figured out in the last hour or so. He wonders if he’ll be forgiven for not realizing earlier.

For not pushing them to invade Keith’s privacy if it just meant knowing this  _ sooner. _

_ _ Shiro is hugging him, now that they’re out in the corridor with fewer pairs of prying eyes. He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t have to. He and Lance have barely scraped the surface of the things that need to be discussed, but it may need to wait until Krolia is brought up to speed.

“Let’s go to the med bay,” he suggests. 

Keith doesn’t look any different than when they put him in there barely an hour ago. Coran had said it would be a short time in the pods, four vargas at most. Lance wonders if he had any clue about all the other damage -- not just the stitches in his arm, but the horrendous marks hidden under his clothes. 

“Krolia! Can’t say I’m surprised to see you here. How has he been?”

For a second, Lance is confused by Coran’s question, quirking an eyebrow at the Altean as he emerges from behind a set of cabinets, drying his hands on a towel. 

But Krolia sighs, deep and world-weary, and shakes her head. “Not good. It’s no wonder I had so many concerned Blades trying to ruin my mission over this. It really smells like…” she trails off, looks to the pod where Keith is frozen in stasis. “He wasn’t tortured, was he?”

That hits Lance like a ton of bricks. He gapes at her, trying to figure out where on  _ Earth _ she got that idea from, and then trying to deny the possibility that Keith had been so thoroughly destroyed that  _ that’s _ what Krolia senses must be the case.

“I…” He shakes his head. “No, no, not that.” He stops. Isn’t sure how to continue. Tries to force the words out and looks to Shiro for help, but Shiro seems just as lost.

And that, more than anything, terrifies him.

Coran moves forward swiftly and draws him into an embrace. He doesn’t even know what’s  _ wrong _ and he isn’t hesitating to comfort Lance. 

It’s just the four of them against all these injustices, right now, in this room. And they need to know. They need to understand.

“He told me he cheated on me,” he explains, even though Shiro and Coran have heard  _ that _ already. For Krolia, he clarifies, “He told me he had sex with someone else. I thought-- y’know, I thought, he  _ had _ to be lying, because he’d never do that. But if he  _ didn’t, _ then why would he lie about it? I thought, maybe, he lied because that was the easiest way to break up with me.”

He steps back, out of Coran’s embrace, and hides his face in his hands. “But I  _ never _ thought… He didn’t  _ tell _ me. He said he had sex with someone else! He never said it wasn’t consensual. He never said he was r... _ raped. _ I don’t think he--” a sob wracks his frame, “I don’t think he even  _ realized… _ ”

There’s a moment of peace while Krolia and Coran process that, during which time Shiro sidles closer to provide support when Lance needs it. 

“Do you mean to tell me,” Krolia begins, in a voice so cold that Lance finds himself fearing for his own life, “that someone forced Keith to engage in intercourse that he didn’t  _ want?” _

“That’s exactly what I’m telling you,” Lance says. He sounds a million miles away from himself.

Coran turns, slowly, to face the cryopod Keith is in. “I should have known. I knew something was  _ wrong, _ but I never would have imagined…”

“Me, neither,” Shiro assures. “Which is why none of us  _ did _ imagine that. Keith is a-- a capable, independent person. He’s strong. He’s  _ fierce. _ There has to be more to the story. He would just…  _ let…” _

Lance has to sit. He doesn’t care. He sits on the floor, right where he was standing, and breathes deeply a few times to calm himself. “There is,” he squeaks. “There’s more.”

His hands shake.

“Lance?”

He swallows around the lump in his throat. “He said -- we’d been drinking, and he said that when it happened he was, r-really drunk, or something. Like he couldn’t move right. And he couldn’t-- couldn’t fight back. And we’d been  _ drinking, _ and it’s my  _ fault, _ because I got him drunk and then I left him alone with… with--”

“Hey, it’s okay. None of this is your fault,” Shiro murmurs, crouching down to his level. He still looks like he’s barely holding it together, and Lance has to commend his ability to keep his composure in a situation like this, while everyone else falls apart around him. Or maybe it’s just Lance falling apart.

“You _ know _ who did this?” Krolia asks, sharp and to-the-point.

“I-I mean, I--”

“And  _ who _ has been helping him? It doesn’t seem like he’s received  _ any _ comfort from anyone he trusts since it happened, least of all his own mate. He wouldn’t be nearly as fragile if--”

“Krolia,” Shiro says, politely but firmly. He’s still at Lance’s level, still holding his gaze, “they’re only kids. They didn’t know. If  _ we _ didn’t know, how could they?”

Krolia collapses to the floor beside him. Lance’s neck cracks, he turns so fast to look at her.

More than Shiro,  _ Krolia _ is not supposed to be capable of losing her cool. “Yes, they  _ are.” _ She’s staring off towards a fixed point in space, fingers curling around the handle of a dagger at her hip. “They’re barely more than kits. How could anyone do that to someone who is so young? I’ve seen cruelty in my line of work, Captain Shirogane, but there’s an unspoken rule about harming kits and younglings. Even in adolescence, they’re off-limits. One would have to be truly sick to-- to do something like  _ that _ to… He’s my  _ son.” _

_ _ Lance wants to argue that they  _ aren’t  _ kids, not really, not anymore. He’s almost  _ twenty, _ for fuck’s sake, and it’s hard to retain your childhood innocence when you’re fighting in an intergalactic war. But right now, in this moment, he  _ does _ feel like he’s just a kid. 

And he’s _ lost. _ He fucked up so badly, in so many ways, and the damage done may be irreversible. He doesn’t know what to do. 

“If I’d been here, I would have known. I could have stopped it from ever happening.”

“Don’t you see?” Coran finally turns away from the pod Keith is in. “Lance feels the same way! The fact of the matter is, nothing either of you did could have prevented this. The  _ only _ person capable of preventing this is the person who  _ did _ it.”

Lance conjures up his fuzzy memories of the stranger from that night -- the  _ rapist _ he’d unwittingly abandoned Keith with. He hates him. He doesn’t know him, doesn’t remember his name, barely remembers his voice. And he hates him. He wishes he was dead. He wishes he’d never existed in the first place so he couldn’t hurt Keith. “I’m going to kill him,” he swears, just like he swore it to Keith, and he’s so busy being filled with rage and misery and guilt that he can’t dwell on the potential consequences, or the way that goes against everything he believes in. 

He used to think every life had value. No one  _ deserved _ death, not even the worst people in the universe. They were still  _ people. _ Now he isn’t so sure. Because if someone could hurt Keith, and take  _ pleasure _ in it, and reduce the strongest person Lance has ever met to the shell he was forced to confront today -- well, he doesn’t think even death would be punishment enough.

And even as Shiro reels at that, and insists that he ‘doesn’t mean it’, Krolia grasps his forearm and she tears her gaze away from the nothing that she’s been staring at so intently.  _ “We’re _ going to kill him,” she says, with the same conviction he feels.

* * *


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Problem-solving skills feat. Krolia and Lance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is late and also short because I am _wildly_ busy like all the time lol

* * *

When his time in the cryopod is over, Keith shies away from the hands that reach out to support him as the glass seal retracts into the floor. A split second later his eyes go wide and he stumbles straight into Krolia, arms flung around her waist. She hugs back, but Lance can see the lingering uncertainty, the anger, the  _ grief. _

That’s her baby, her only son, and  _ no one _ hurts him and gets away with it.

They don’t include him in their plans for the day. Lance pampers him for the whole morning and Krolia hovers (he doesn’t know she knows, but he must suspect). He tries to convey his apologies through gestures: a hand in his hair, forehead pressed to his shoulder, arms around his waist, holding tight. He tries to convey his  _ understanding _ through the words that come before: “Can I touch you?” “Can I kiss you?”

“You don’t have to ask,” Keith pouts, but Lance asks anyway, maybe because of the flicker of fear in his eyes when he’d first come out of the cryopod. 

When Keith falls asleep in his arms, curled up on their bed with a shitty Earth rom-com playing on Pidge’s laptop, he slips away to join Krolia on the bridge. 

“How soon can we go?” he asks, leaning over her shoulder to watch the screen she’s using. There’s a compilation of photos of L’Gahrouh faces, some kind of database for the Voltron Coalition. Pictures of their allies. Of the prominent people from their allied planets.

People they can trust.

Or, who they’re  _ supposed _ to be able to trust. 

“You said he was a member of the High Guard on Lah’Gahroux?” She continues scrolling, searching the many faces, like one will jump out at her with the word “rapist” scrawled across it. 

Lance nods. Swallows. “That’s… that’s what Keith said. I was pretty, uh, wasted. I think he was a captain?”

She nods and types something in at the bottom of the screen. A shorter list pops up, and there, right at the top--

Lance suddenly finds it difficult to breathe. “Right there. That’s him. I remember his face.” His hand trembles when he points at that very first picture, the stoic and unassuming shot of…

“Kyrix?  _ The _ Captain of the High Guard?”

The name hits him like a sack of bricks to the face.  _ “I am Kyrix, of Deh-seayid… We will be seeing a lot of each other now that the alliance is set.” _

And then, right before Keith told him, hadn’t he  _ been _ there? At the meeting? Hadn’t Lance seen him there, near Keith, while Keith went to great lengths to avoid him?

He thinks he might be sick.

“I shouldn’t have left them alone…” he starts, but then Krolia is  _ hugging _ him, shaking her head.

“Shh. No. We’re not supposed to think like that. It doesn’t help anything.”

“Coran told you that?” Lance asks, trying to sound playful but his voice is thick with the threat of tears and when he looks at the screen again they overflow. 

“He did. He’s right. It can’t be undone.”

“But it can be punished.”

Krolia leans back, looks him dead in the eye, and nods. “But it can be punished,” she repeats firmly.

  
  


“I don’t understand,” is the first thing out of the alien’s mouth after they’ve explained themselves.

They can’t just run around killing people,  _ especially _ not people who are citizens in societies they’ve formed alliances with, but they can still present their issues to the powers that be in those societies and hope for the best. 

This alien -- the closest thing to a “world ruler” here, an elected official designated to oversee all laws and regulations on the entire planet -- is their best hope of seeing justice in this situation.  _ Mahlrika, _ he’d introduced himself as, the  _ Vov’atka _ of Lah’Gahroux. The world leader. The overseer.

“Are you telling me you think this is … not allowed? What makes you think that?”

Dumbfounded, Lance says,  _ “Not allowed? _ Obviously it’s not allowed. It’s…  _ that’s… _ you can’t just do that to another person. It’s--”  _ Traumatizing. Scarring. Cruel. _

_ It strips them of their bodily autonomy and their trust in others, _ he could say, but he closes his mouth and tries to let his brain catch up. “What makes  _ you _ think it’s  _ okay?” _

Mahlrika shrugs. Nonchalant. Lance wants to deck him, but he knows that wouldn’t get them anywhere. “He is an esteemed member of my guard. He has earned his rights.”

“His--” Lance flounders, literally at a loss for words. That’s  _ sick. _ Earned his  _ rights? _ Rights to fucking  _ what? _ Raping people? What else? Killing without consequence? Torturing innocents?

“In most societies,” Krolia steps in, a comforting hand on his arm, “that is considered an act of cruelty. It is an assault, and it comes with consequences.”

Mahlrika laughs.  _ Laughs. _ If their roles were reversed, Lance has no doubt that Keith would’ve snapped and punched this guy’s lights out. But he’s trying to get somewhere with this,  _ trying _ to makes things right, and that won’t  _ help. _

Fuck, does he ever wish that punching this jerk would  _ help. _

“Not here. No, he was well within his rights to take what he wanted. It is common practice. We even have readily available sedatives to assist in the process, for cases where the claimed may, well, _resist._ I cannot enact a punishment in this situation without jeopardizing the freedoms of other members of our society.”

“What about the members of society who are victims in these situations?” Krolia asks, but Lance doesn’t hear the response because he’s  _ reeling, _ the room spinning around him, and his stomach churns violently because... _ because-- _

_ Was Keith drugged? _

He throws up the moment they step outside. He doesn’t even remember their parting words to the Vov’atka. He remembers his ears ringing and his gut twisting and then sunlight and then he’s on his knees, emptying his stomach onto the polished stone steps. 

“Are we going to kill him now?” Lance asks weakly, while Krolia helps him into Red. He’s shaking. Everything is so,  _ so  _ wrong.

Her voice is like ice. “No. We can’t. But we’re going to fix this.”

“How?” he asks, but she doesn’t answer.

* * *


End file.
